Lovers and Liars

by Brenda Joyce

  “Damn it, Mel, what the fuck is the story on Outrage?” He came to the door. “What is this ‘extended hiatus’ crap?”

  At least he looked like he was getting as little sleep as she was, Melody thought sourly. How could he? Didn’t he know she loved him? Wanted him? Why had he picked up that damn playgirl at the Kellers’ when he could have had her—someone who cared? She hated him.

  She loved him.

  “Ted is returning my call as soon as he can,” Melody said calmly.

  “That’s what his stupid-ass secretary has been saying for two fucking weeks,” Jack raved. “Jesus, Mel, it’s already the sixteenth! Go down there in person and find out what’s going on!”

  “We already know what’s going on,” Melody said coolly.

  “It’s like they don’t even know who I am,” Jack grated. “It’s like I’m not signed to one of the biggest contracts in North-Star’s history. It’s like I’m some fucking untried kid—it’s like the way it used to be!”

  “There’s always new policy when management changes,” Melody said very unhelpfully.

  “New policy? This is a fucking personal war! First the takeover, then Berenger’s cancellation—and now this! And I’m tied into this exclusive fucking contract! I could kill Sanderson! And I can’t get a flicking secretary to even talk to me! What the fuck is going on?”

  “North-Star has been taken over. Berenger isn’t being released. The production of Outrage has been postponed,” Melody recited, watching his face darken again. “And didn’t Sanderson tell you to cool your jets? You got paid, Jack.”

  “What are you, enjoying this?” He gave her an angry look and disappeared back into his office, slamming the door behind him. Melody hoped he was angry with her too.

  Once he had been sensitive. No. Once she had thought he was sensitive. Now she realized he was no different from any other good-looking actor—selfish, egotistical, and imperious. He hadn’t been sensitive enough to know when she loved him, and he wasn’t sensitive enough now to know how angry she was.

  Angry and hurt.

  That weekend in Aspen she hadn’t even had this sanctuary of anger. There’d been just a terrible hurt. She had cried herself to sleep each night, soundlessly, because she knew the walls were very thin. Sometimes, sitting on the lift with Jack, with the pain ballooning in her heart, she had thought she would break into tears right then and there in front of him. She had managed not to. But more than once she had been skiing blinded, tears blurring her vision, steaming up her goggles.

  She reached for the phone. Ted Majoriis was still in a meeting. Melody flipped through her Rolodex. “Nickie Felton, please.”

  He was in a meeting, but she knew he would return her call.

  Nickie, the assistant producer of Berenger; had had the hots for her. And he always knew the inside story. Melody didn’t know why she was going after this. She didn’t know if it was because of her job or because of something else, something deeper, darker.

  “Hiya, sweetheart,” Lansing said, startling her. “So how about tonight?”

  67

  He sat staring into space.

  Staring into space, out the window at the lawn and beyond that to the road—or at the bent head of the teacher, who was oblivious to everything except the book he was immersed in.

  This is just great, Rick thought.

  He hated study hall. Hated it.

  Just great.

  A boy who looked twelve was doodling all over his desk. A few of the kids were actually studying. Another guy, a redhead, seemed to be tapping his toe to a silent rhythm. Two girls were talking in sign language, right at his side. When the teacher, Mr. Howard, looked up, the room was hushed. When he looked down, the doodling and toe-tapping and sign language continued. Rick saw that the redhead had discreetly managed to stuff a Walkman headphone into his ear. Now that was unfair!

  One of the girls slipped him a note: “Are you really Jackson Ford’s brother?” Rick was disgusted, but anything was better than boredom. All these girls were the same. They couldn’t care less about him. All they cared about was his damn star brother.

  He got another note: “Are you seeing Lydia Carrera?”

  Now where had that come from? Sure, he’d talked to her a couple of times, but that was it. He wasn’t seeing her.

  He scribbled on the scrap of paper: “No.” He slipped it back. The girls giggled. Mr. Howard looked up. Sharply.

  “What is going on?” His eyes searched everyone. And settled on the redhead, who hadn’t managed to get the earphone out of his ear. “Brian Leahy! Take that off immediately, and bring me that radio.”

  Brian complied with obvious distress.

  Ten o’clock. Rick knew he was going to die of sheer boredom. Another minute passed by, second ticking after second after second. Suddenly a movement caught his eye, and he jerked around to look out the window.

  Lydia was hanging upside down from a tree, like a merry, delighted ape. Rick smothered laughter. She was making faces. He had to smile. Her shirt was hanging toward her chest, revealing an expanse of flat, brownish belly. He wondered hopefully if her boobs might fall out. Then she made another face, and he laughed out loud. He clamped down quickly, the moment he realized what he’d done.

  “Rick Ford! What is so funny?”

  “Nothing,” Rick said, not daring to steal another glance out the window and still trying not to laugh. He stared at the science teacher in front of him. But a few instants later he had to look out the window. She was gone.

  68

  Adam was no fool.

  He stepped into his apartment, closing the door behind him, thinking. He had seen Belinda leave the Kellers’ party with Ford. She had told him she had a headache and insisted he didn’t have to accompany her. What did she take him for, a fucking fool? She’d used the exact same lines at the Majoriises almost six months ago. Twice now, she’d dumped him for that two-bit actor.

  He had been livid then, not jealous, just livid—because Ford was getting in his way.

  And because that little cunt had chosen Ford over him.

  Chosen some two-bit stud actor over him.

  That was when he had first come to hate Belinda Glassman.

  He hated her now.

  He had invested almost half a year of his life chasing her, courting her, wooing her—playing the perfect gentleman. And she had dumped him for that nothing actor. It was beyond belief. Even now, just thinking about it, he was having fantasies of grabbing her and raping her, teaching her a lesson, pounding into her mercilessly.

  Of course, he wouldn’t do it.

  He was a man of reason, and reason ruled. He had no intention of losing this battle—and all the spoils of war. Belinda Glassman was not going to escape him.

  All he had to do was think of Glassman Enterprises, and the billions of dollars it represented, to know conclusively that she was not going to escape him. He couldn’t let her.

  “You’re home.”

  Adam looked up and smiled.

  Cerisse smiled back, leaning against the doorway to the hall. She was black, beautiful, tall. She wore a nippleless bra and crotchless panties. Adam’s prick rose immediately to attention. He walked toward her, staring at hard, large, brown nipples.

  “I have a surprise for you,” she murmured, dodging his hands as he reached for her breasts.

  He followed her into the bedroom, throwing his sweater on a chair. He stopped. Stared.

  The woman in his bed was as short and slim as Cerisse was tall and voluptuous. She was Asian. Naked except for black stockings. Her nipples, small and pointed, were rouged the color of red wine. Her pubes were shaven, her legs spread—like the whore she was. Cerisse chuckled.

  “Go down on her,” Adam said, “while I get undressed.”

  69

  Mary knew she was on the edge of a terrible breakdown, maybe insanity. The phone rang, but she ignored it. She was surrounded by today’s newspapers. They’d been opened, read, and tossed aside. Nothing. Sh
e couldn’t find a thing.

  Oh, God!

  If Belinda Glassman had died, she knew without a doubt that the police would come knocking on her door. She expected them at any moment—as she had for the past eighteen hours, ever since the gun had gone off yesterday evening. She thought she heard a car in the drive. She jumped, ran to the window, peered through the curtains. No one. Now she was hearing things.

  She was sweating.

  She would never, never forget the look on Belinda’s face when the gun went off. Belinda had grabbed it. Mary had struggled against her superior strength. Then the blast. Belinda suddenly letting go, face white, eyes wide, staggering backward. A red blossom, small at first, above her left breast, growing rapidly. She had started screaming wildly as she fell to the ground.

  Except, Mary realized, it wasn’t Belinda screaming—it was herself.

  “Call an ambulance, Mary,” Belinda had gotten out.

  Mary was frozen, standing there, moaning, panting, unable to move, to think, to respond.

  “Mary! An ambulance! Please!”

  Mary stared and watched Belinda’s eyes close, her breathing stop. Dear God! She was dying, maybe dead. That did it! She was jolted into action. She ran down the stairs to her car. Then she thought of the gun—and fingerprints. She ran back up the stairs, panting wildly, and grabbed the gun. She turned and fled to her car, backing out, going over the curb, not caring, shifting into first, gunning it. Sweat poured down her face, blinded her. She forced herself to slow to the speed limit.

  What if Belinda was alive?

  She stopped at a 7-Eleven and called an ambulance, hanging up as soon as she gave the address and told them it was a shooting. Back in her car, she took off. It wasn’t until she was home that she paused, leaning against the seat, her heart pounding crazily, clenching the steering wheel so tightly that her hands were white. She was gasping for air like a fish out of water. Oh, please, don’t let her die, she prayed, and it became a litany that she said over and over.

  She knew that they were coming at any second for her. They wouldn’t care that it was an accident. She would say she didn’t think the gun was loaded. The gun. She had to do something about the gun.

  But what?

  She knew from TV that cops could trace a bullet to a gun. Carefully she wiped off all her fingerprints. How would they ever find the gun? If it was back where it belonged in Vince’s nightstand drawer, as if it had never left? It was so tempting to throw the gun away—into the ocean maybe—but Vince would want to know what had happened. No, she had to leave it where it always was, replacing the used bullet, and sit tight.

  Mary was torn. She didn’t want Belinda to die. But if she lived, she would tell the police what had happened—and then what? Mary would go to jail. Prison. She knew it. She had seen movies; she knew how horrible prisons were. Maybe Belinda would die. Maybe she already had.

  She turned on the news. Listened to the radio. There was no report of a shooting, much less a killing. Vince came home, looking harassed, in a bad mood, but Mary couldn’t face him. She wished he loved her, that she could confide in him; but if he loved her, none of this would ever have happened. It was his fault.

  He wanted to know what they were having for dinner.

  “Fuck off,” Mary said.

  He cursed her back and jumped into his truck and took off.

  Mary started to cry. She was supposed to be acting normal. Then she heard a car in the drive. Vince returning—or the cops? She couldn’t stand it, the waiting, she just couldn’t. There was a knock. With a moan, she went and answered it. It was Beth.

  Mary collapsed in her arms, sobbing hysterically.

  70

  “Laguna PD”

  Belinda looked up at the plainclothes officer from where she was sitting in a hospital wheelchair. “It was an accident,” she said wearily. She had already told that to a cop in uniform last night—but her memory was hazy.

  “I’m afraid I have to make out a complete report,” the detective said. “My name’s Hewitt. Now, exactly what happened?”

  “Five minutes,” Dr. Gould said protectively. “That’s it”

  She had nothing to hide. “I’m having an affair with a man named Vince Spazzio. He’s married. Yesterday I opened the door, and his wife was there—with a gun. She was obviously doped out. She called me names. I never thought she would shoot, and I was angry. I’m a very private person—I hate being intruded upon.” Belinda was angry just thinking about it. “I tried to grab the gun. I guess that was stupid. But I’m very strong, so I knew I could get it away. Well—I did. After it went off.”

  “That was stupid,” Hewitt said. “But we can bring all kinds of charges. First and not least, assault with intent to do bodily harm, assault with a deadly weapon, leaving the scene—”

  “It was an accident,” Belinda said. “An accident. She’s a pathetic wreck. I’m not pressing charges.” And I’m not seeing Vince anymore, she thought. She didn’t need this. Oh no. A biweekly bang was not worth this.

  Both Gould and Hewitt gaped. A nurse informed them that Belinda’s cab was there.

  “I’m sure you’ll change your mind,” Hewitt said. “Anyway, it’s not up to you. The DA will decide whether to prosecute or not. I still have to file my report. Spazzio?”

  “Yes,” Belinda said weakly.

  Dr. Gould wheeled her to the doors of the entrance, hospital policy, he told her. Belinda was very flattered and very grateful that he personally was escorting her out. He slipped his arm around her waist, and she stood. God, she was tired, and her entire body hurt. How was that possible from a simple gunshot wound in the shoulder?

  He helped her down the wide outdoor steps and into the waiting cab. “Plenty of rest,” he admonished gently. “And I want to see you exactly one week from today.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap,” she managed. She sank back gratefully in the cab, completely exhausted.

  Her arm was in a sling, but it wasn’t her arm that had been shot. The wound was close to and just under her collarbone. The bullet had gone right through. After having been in the hospital over twenty-four hours, she had insisted on going home. She hated hospitals. They terrified her.

  Gould had wanted her to call a relative or friend, both to pick her up and to spend a few days with her. There was no one she could call. She had already realized how alone in the world she was—yesterday, when she was being wheeled out of Emergency, regaining consciousness on her way to a hospital room. Completely, utterly alone. Who was there in her life who cared? Who would be there for her now when she was hurt, wounded physically, shot by some maniac, and all alone in a hospital?

  It was the medication, she hoped, that was making her feel sorry for herself.

  And of course, not for the first time, she thought of Jack Ford.

  What would he do if he knew she’d been shot, and that she was alone now and hurting?

  She was appalled at herself. At her obvious need to have him come running to her. As if that would ever happen. He didn’t know she was hurt, and even if he did, she knew he wouldn’t care, not one bit.

  71

  She hadn’t returned his call.

  And she had been discharged from the hospital.

  Abe was furious. To think that if some ass-kissing nurse that he just happened to have balled hadn’t made the connection between his daughter and him and hadn’t been working that day at the hospital—he wouldn’t have even known Belinda had been shot.

  It didn’t matter that her doctor had told him she was fine, just weak and exhausted; nor did it matter that Lieutenant Hewitt had told him the same thing. Abe let the phone ring, and when the answering machine came on he started to shout. He knew she was there. And dammit, he wanted to know what the fuck had happened.

  “Don’t yell, I’m here,” Belinda said, her voice sounding very doped up.

  “What the hell happened?” Abe practically shouted. “Are you all right?”

  “Abe, I take it you found out I was shot. It
’s nothing. In case you care, I’m all right. I was sleeping.”

  “Gould said he asked you to stay in the hospital for a few more days. Christ! For once could you listen to somebody other than yourself?”

  “What difference does it make?” she said wearily.

  “You’re all alone out there, that’s what. Anyway, your mother’s on her way, and we’re sending over a nurse. Now, what happened?”

  “I don’t want a nurse here,” Belinda said firmly. “And there’s no need for Nancy to come.”

  “She’s coming. For this once, just this once, do me a fucking favor,” Abe snapped. “Now what the fuck happened?”

  “It was an accident,” Belinda said. “The wife of my lover came over high as a kite, and she had a gun. I’m sure she didn’t mean to use it. I tried to grab it, and it went off.”

  “That was fucking stupid,” Abe said. “The no-good cunt. For assault with a deadly weapon she can get ten years, and I’ll see that she does! That little bitch!”

  There was a pause. “Abe, drop it. She needs drug rehabilitation, not imprisonment. Besides, I’m not pressing charges.”

  “What?”

  “You heard. I feel sorry for her, I guess. The gun shouldn’t have been loaded—no, she shouldn’t have even brought a gun—but after all, I have been screwing her husband for the past six months. I asked the police to just drop the whole thing. I think she’s more upset and traumatized than I am. She was hysterical when I got shot.”

  “You can be damn smart sometimes, but sometimes I wonder where you left your brains. You can’t let that little bitch fuck with you, Belinda, do you hear me? She’s crazy! You think she’s learned her lesson? How the fuck do you know? What happens when she decides to try again? Huh?”

  “She won’t,” Belinda said shortly. “Believe me. Look, I’m not up to this, not at all. Good-bye, Abe.”

  “Don’t you dare hang up on me,” Abe said.

  “I need my sleep—so I can get better and get back to work.”